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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26623456">Keep Your Electric Eye on Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte'>faeleverte</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Awkward Flirting, Deaf Clint Barton, Hijinks &amp; Shenanigans, Humor, M/M, because it wouldn't be from me otherwise, i wrote ridiculous things while in lockdown, in theory, not the sexy kind, videocalls, what else was i supposed to do while we were all in lockdown</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:40:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26623456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is ready for Clint and Natasha to get back from their mission and get through their mandatory isolation. He's only been working from home for five days, and he <i>likes</i> his space, but it's a little lonely to only see friends and <del>co-irkers</del> coworkers on a screen. Once the rest of Strike Team Delta can come over, life will be a little more comfortable. The After Action Report call should be coming through in just a little bit...</p><p>****</p><p>Twenty-One days on mission is more than enough for Clint– especially on a job so boring. But it's over at last, and now Clint can take a little time to <i>enjoy</i> his call home, spend a little time chatting with his other best friend and partner...</p><p>Who is also the recipient of one of Clint's longest-lasting crushes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton/Phil Coulson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>152</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Keep Your Electric Eye on Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHSC/gifts">JHSC</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/gifts">Laura Kaye (laurakaye)</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/gifts">Kathar</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shelter in Place Order: Day 5</p><p> </p><p>Phil Coulson was accustomed to working from home; he’d started insisting on doing it one day a week about a year previously. At any of the SHIELD buildings, he spent all day in meetings, planned or impromptu, and he could never seem to get any work done. He’d been hired for his security and political analytical skills, and it was hard to analyze when he was never still long enough to read through one whole report. Sure, he knew his on-the-fly, off-the-cuff planning had been what got him high enough up the ranks to run ops, but sometimes it felt good to sit down and make real, systemic changes that helped their operatives out in the field. </p><p>Still, five days of nothing but his own walls had him ready to climb out of his skin.</p><p>Strange how lonely a person could feel in spite of talking to dozens of people in the last few days. But, really, that’s all he’d been doing– talking. Even video calls only allowed so much silent communication, especially with an entire state on lockdown for a pandemic. Connections were slow and jerky, leaving people’s faces pixelated or still when they were talking. </p><p>Hardest of all was staying in and being safe when the other two members of his own Strike Team Delta were out in the world where they were in nearly as much danger from a civilian sneeze as from a counter-operative. Phil wasn’t made for being safe. He’d never understood how some people could watch from the sidelines when a building was on fire; he’d always been the first one to run through a burning door or to grab a nearby hose. Honestly, it was what had led him to SHIELD in the first place: the ability to <i>do something</i> when the world went sideways.</p><p>Sadly, a gun and the ability to talk down bad guys didn’t do much good against a raging virus.</p><p>So, Phil stayed home and worked his way steadily through a backlog of reports that had been waiting for his attention. He sat through endless video and phone meetings, and he binged Netflix in the evenings (and considered that, crazy as SHIELD life was, at least he wasn’t in a big cat cult). His tablet was set up for his team to call at any hour, and they did call. Granted, it was all work-related, being that it was broadcast over SHIELD’s secure servers, but at least it was contact. The mission had wrapped an hour or two before, according to the coded message to Phil’s work email, and Barton and Romanov shortly would be making their final call-in before their flight home.</p><p>Phil looked down at himself and decided that, not only did he have time for a shower before the call, but he really needed to take one. The dress shirt and tie had been clean that morning, but the sleep pants on the lower half had been in use for...long enough to be embarrassing. He had <i>nearly</i> decided to forgo the sleep pants that morning; the previous day had included some particularly tedious Work From Home training videos that suggested making people wear dress slacks for conference and video calls conferred some kind of magical productivity boost. It threatened that, if pajama pants (or even comfy sweats) were allowed, lower-half nudity was only a heartbeat away, and apparently, that way lay the utter breakdown of Rule of Order. In the end, Phil decided that his own personal risk of forgetting his bottom half was exposed and getting up to pace the room was greater than his urge to prove that he could be <i>just</i> as effective half naked.</p><p>Loosening the knot on his tie, Phil headed toward the bedroom. He pulled the strip of silk free from his collar and rolled it tightly, tucking it into one of the pigeonholes on the shelf on the wall that he’d bought just to hold his collection. No point in having beautiful ties if he never got to see the brightest ones; he stuck mostly to navy blues, grey, and black for work, but he really had quite a lot of brighter, more cheerful colors, too. He slipped his cufflinks out and dropped them into the red-orange carnival glass bowl that had belonged to his mother. His sleep pants slid free as soon as he untied the string, so he walked straight out of them, pausing just to catch them with his toes, pulling them up high enough that he could grab them and drop them into the hamper beside the bathroom door. He’d already taken off his socks earlier in the day, so he made a mental note to get them off the living room floor before bedtime.</p><p>He glanced at his watch when he removed it to set on the bathroom counter. Still another thirty minutes to go until one of his teammates called. If it was Romanov making the call, Phil really wanted to have pants on before he answered. It would just be wrong to talk to her while he was naked, like his nudity would be harassing her. Not that he’d never been around her while in a state of undress. They’d shared safe houses and decontamination showers and that one weird weekend where they’d both had to lose spectacularly at strip poker in order to maintain cover. But he’d always tried to be courteous about his body and never inflict it on her without warning.</p><p>Then again, if Barton called, well… <i>yikes</i>. </p><p>It could go wrong in even <i>more</i> terrible ways.</p><p>Phil just <i>knew</i> he would give himself away. Or that he would go and do something inappropriate when the usual talking-to-Barton butterflies made themselves known in his belly. Phil might...he might run his fingers over his own chest. Or rub his palm on his thigh. And then he might have some kind of physical reaction that he would have to hope Clint’s dodgy hearing didn’t pick up. And he would hate to try to hide behind Clint’s deafness. It would be cruel. What’s more, it would be unfair.</p><p>After quickly running back out to make certain the ring volume was all the way up, Phil hurried back to the bathroom and jumped in the shower before the water was even properly warmed.</p><p>*****</p><p>Data Retrieval Mission: Day 21</p><p>Outside of the mission, the world had mostly locked down. Clint Barton only knew that because Coulson had been kind enough to update him through their nightly phone calls. Natasha did most of the coordinating with SHIELD while Clint sat in unpleasant weather on top of a building, so she knew more details about what was happening. Clint and Natasha argued together amiably as they let themselves into the motel room SHIELD had long maintained as a safe room in that area. </p><p>“So we’ll have to be in quarantine for fourteen days?” He wiggled off his gloves and blew on his fingertips while Natasha secured the door behind them. His toes complained of the cold, so he bent down to unfasten his boots while he continued talking. “Even though we’ve not been near another living soul for the last three weeks? Come on, Nat!”</p><p>“It’s the flight,” she told him, shaking her hair out of the twist she’d put it in beneath her balaclava. She unzipped the front of her suit and began removing it. “Apparently we could be exposed on the flight.”</p><p>“In the cargo hold of a plane that hasn’t had anyone in it for the past three weeks and one day.” Clint shook his head. He slid his jacket off his shoulders and dropped it on the floor and then started in on his tac vest, only just realizing how much cold it was holding in. He got it off and lifted the longjohn shirt he wore beneath it to rub his belly and chest. He started working to get his pants off.</p><p>“You wanna argue with medical,” Nat said as she finished peeling out of her tac suit (and Clint never understood how she fit her dark red CuddleDuds under that thing), “be my guest.”</p><p>“I just…” Clint trailed off with a sigh as he finished stripping down to his own long johns. They’d been a Christmas present from Coulson the year before, and Clint wondered where the hell he’d found purple ones. And how he could get about six more sets to have one for every day of the week. </p><p>“I know.” She laughed lightly and ruffled his rain-damped hair until drips sprayed out around him. “You just want to see Coulson.”</p><p>“Don’t you?” Clint retorted, pushing her hand away; he figured he looked like a dampened dandelion. A glance at his reflection in the dark screen of the laptop showed that he wasn’t wrong.</p><p>“Not like you do.” Nat skipped back out of reach. “You wanna see him naaaaaaked.”</p><p>He took a half-hearted swipe at her. “How old are you again? Four? <i>Three?</i>”</p><p>“Old enough to know you’re ridiculous with all the pining and teenage girl swooning.” She stood on tiptoes to press a light kiss to his cheek. “And old enough to know you’re a hopeless romantic.”</p><p>Clint waved her away gruffly, hoping his cheeks weren’t as pink as they felt. </p><p>“You can have first shower.” He sat down at the desk and pressed his fingerprint to the hidden button on the laptop. “I’ll do the final check-in with Ph– Coulson.”</p><p>“I’ll give you and your naked fantasies some privacy.” Nat ducked through the door into the tiny bathroom. </p><p>A tiny motel room didn’t seem like much of a safe house, but a place with two actual beds (narrow and a little short, but beds all the same), a real desk, electricity, and plentiful hot water was practically luxurious compared to some places he’d slept. Clint settled back in the chair and stretched his sock feet out toward the radiator to his right. Practically heaven.</p><p>After just a moment of consideration, he got up to dig his hearing aid case out of his go-bag. They doubled as his comm units on these missions, and they made his ear canals ache if he left them in too long. Three weeks was <i>way</i> too long. He’d go for a video call, so he and Coulson could sign. They could always use text, if the connection was too unstable. </p><p>Besides, no ears made a great excuse to actually <i>look</i> at Coulson. He was a lot nicer of a view than a bunch of mostly empty offices and occasional hairy goons that Clint had been looking at for the past three weeks. He twisted in the chair, folding himself up to hang one leg over the arm, and reached out lazily to swipe across the call button on the screen.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p>The tablet was ringing and binging from the living room by the time Phil shut off the water in his shower. He frowned as he stepped out of the shower, picked up his watch to check the time, frowned again, and then grabbed a towel, swiping off water as he hurried through the apartment. He quickly dropped the towel on top of his head, drying his hair and face with one hand, reaching out with the other to prod madly around the screen. He kept poking until he finally hit the answer button and the jangling chime stopped.</p><p>“Coulson,” he said sharply, lifting the towel far enough away from his mouth that he hoped it didn’t come out muffled. Barton’s ears would not appreciate Phil trying to talk through a mouthful of terrycloth, and Natasha would just <i>know</i> that Phil was talking through a towel and was otherwise entirely naked.</p><p>“Uhhh,” Barton’s usual mouthy greeting was not forthcoming, and Phil dropped the towel quickly, every fiber of his body on high alert to demand to know what was wrong and what he needed to do to fix it.</p><p>And then Phil realized.</p><p>He had made a terrible, horrible, <i>embarrassing</i> miscalculation.</p><p>Clint had <i>not</i> made his standard audio call.</p><p>“Hey, Coulson,” Barton drawled, his cheeks dusted with pink, and his eyes wider than Phil had ever seen them. “Bad time?”</p><p>In the little picture at the corner of the screen, the one that showed what Barton’s screen was showing, Phil had a very good view of his own chest and belly, the hair trailing down to his groin, and just the very top edge of his (thankfully flaccid) dick.</p><p>With a shriek of pure horror, Phil dove for the floor. </p><p>“Uhhh, Phil?” Clint asked from somewhere up above.</p><p>Phil reached up to the table, fumbling around madly until his hand met the glass of the tablet. </p><p>*****</p><p>Clint sat rigid in his chair, stunned.  </p><p>“Uhhh, Phil?” he asked, mostly on autopilot. Did he really see what he thought he saw? Had his imagination somehow taken over his brain? Was he sick? Dying? Had he hit his head while climbing down from the roof that afternoon? If it was a hallucination, why did the view cut off so high, when there were thighs and calves (and a dick) down below the edge of the screen? Surely going crazy would be a little nicer to him than that.</p><p>Then again...</p><p>There had...that had been...it was rather a <i>lot</i> of Coulson. </p><p>Lots of skin.</p><p>And hair.</p><p>With freckles. </p><p>And chest hair. </p><p>And...and nipples.</p><p>And <i>wet</i> chest hair.</p><p><i>And a little bit of dick</i>, Clint’s brain (or maybe his libido) supplied.</p><p>Something other than Clint’s spine got a little more rigid.</p><p>Just as Clint gathered himself to say something maybe helpful or concerned– like <i>are you okay</i> or <i>get back up here</i>– Coulson’s hand, strong and thick, with short nails and sharp knuckles and rounded fingertips (<i>yeah, Clint knew he’d spent too much time staring at Coulson’s hands, if he knew them that well</i>) crept back up onto the table, swiping around in the general direction of the screen. One finger caught the edge of the tablet and the view tilted: a blur the colors of Coulson’s neat blue and white living room, a red and blue smudge that was probably his vintage Captain America poster, a skin-colored blur that was possibly Coulson’s naked body against the dark oak floor, and then the tablet came to rest, camera up, giving an astonishingly close-up view straight up Coulson’s nose. </p><p>“Uh.” Clint gulped hard. “Hiya, Coulson.”</p><p>Coulson gave another little scream and then ducked out of sight. </p><p>“Um. Hi. Barton. Hi. Yeah.” Coulson cleared his throat loudly.  “One moment, please.”</p><p>Coulson’s thumb came into view, grew larger, then obscured the camera. When it moved away, the tablet appeared to be back on the stand on the table, and Coulson was seated in a chair, the towel he’d been holding over his face when he first answered wrapped loosely across his neck and shoulders.</p><p>“I’m sorry about that,” Coulson said tightly. At least, that’s what Clint assumed. He couldn’t hear well, so he reached out and turned up the volume on the call. Coulson swallowed hard and reached up to push his hair back. “I miscalculated the–” he turned his face away, and Clint missed the next bit. </p><p>“<i>mumble</i> call <i>mumble</i> hour.”</p><p>Clint tipped his head to the side. Phil said something else, but Clint only knew that by the way his cheek flexed and his lips twitched on the screen.</p><p>“Coulson,” Clint said carefully. He <i>really</i> needed the guy to look up, or the call wasn’t going to work. “Uh, Phil?” </p><p>Coulson’s head snapped up, eyes focused on the camera. </p><p>“My ears are out,” Clint said. “I can’t tell what you’re saying if you don’t look at me.”</p><p>Coulson’s face flashed even redder than it already was, effectively hiding every freckle on his cheeks. Between that blush and the water running down his forehead, Clint wondered if he’d actually fallen asleep before calling and was having a particularly weird dream. About Phil Coulson. Naked. </p><p>Again.</p><p>He lifted his hands, decided that he couldn’t think of anything to say and dropped his hands into his lap.</p><p>Coulson raised one fist to his towel-covered chest and swept it in a circle. </p><p>[Sorry]</p><p>[I don’t mind] Clint gave a wink to go with it. Just to...try to break the tension. [Sexy]</p><p>Phil– and he <i>had</i> to be Phil, not just Agent Coulson, between the nudity and the embarrassment– looked down, his short lashes fanning out over his hot-looking red cheeks. He looked up, face set to schoolmarm levels of disapproval and held up his hands again, thumb and middle finger of each hand held together, drew back his right elbow and spread the fingers of his left hand wide while holding his right in an ASL H. </p><p>[Hawkeye]</p><p>Clint felt his own cheeks heat, but he just grinned as cheekily as he could, signing [Sorry], with a wink to show that he really wasn’t.</p><p>After that, they sat in silence, just looking at each other. Well, looking at the images of each other, which kept their eyes from meeting. Probably a good thing, overall. Clint wondered if Phil was too embarrassed to think of something to say or if he, like Clint, was just enjoying the silent communing. Still, the staring went on. And on. </p><p>Clint broke first, lifting both hands up beside his temples and flipping his fingers. Then he pointed to Phil before brushing the middle finger of his right hand down the back of his left. Then he twisted his right thumb in his left palm and held both hands up like claws near his mouth, moving them away.</p><p>[Unexpected, you naked. Impressive scream.]</p><p>Phil gave him a flat look and held up one hand with his middle finger raised in a gesture that one didn’t need to know American Sign Language to read. Clint burst out laughing, and, after a beat, Phil laughed, too. He wiped a hand down his face and shook his head before looking back up.</p><p>“Status report, Barton,” he said, enunciating carefully. </p><p>“Successful, safe, and absolutely exhausted,” Clint answered. He hoped Phil had the volume of his tablet adjusted enough that his difficulties with modulation weren’t too noticeable. Still, Phil had never commented on it, unlike a few jackholes that Clint had been partnered with on overnight missions. That was just one thing (in a long, <i>long</i> list) that Clint liked about him: basic human decency and a little compassion about hearing aid troubles.</p><p>“Any difficulties or incidents to report?”</p><p>“Nah,” Clint said, leaning his forward and resting his elbows on the edge of the table, chin settling into the ridges of his linked fingers. “Nat trotted right in. I could see her all the way up. She never crossed another person. I didn’t even get to punch anybody. I mean, I guess that means no one got to punch on me, either.”</p><p>Phil raised the fingers of his right hand to his chin, his left held out in front of him, knuckles toward the camera, then moved them both forward twice, his face wry and sarcastic.</p><p>[Thank goodness. Might damage your little brain]</p><p>Clint barked a laugh and leaned back in his chair again, sliding down to a comfortable slouch. </p><p>“Fuck you, too, Phil.”</p><p>Phil laughed easily, shoulders shaking. Because of that movement, his towel slipped, tumbling down into his lap, leaving his gloriously furred chest on display. Clint was proud that his brain only went offline a little bit. Just a few seconds. Ninety at the outside. </p><p>Maybe it wasn’t too noticeable.</p><p>*****</p><p>“Oh shit.” Phil leaned down to reach for his towel, glancing back up at the screen. “Sorry.” He wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the curse (he did try not to at work, missions that went ass-over-teakettle excepting), or for looking away or for the sudden reemergence of his naked body. </p><p>The onscreen image of Barton blinked twice, then froze, eyes wide and mouth hanging open nearly a centimeter. Phil wasn’t entirely certain the man was breathing.</p><p>“Barton?” Phil said, raising his voice a bit. “<i>Clint!</i>”</p><p>Barton blinked again and then licked his lips, the apples of his cheeks turning a particularly charming shade of pink. He gave himself a little shake.</p><p>“Sorry!” Barton gasped, sitting up straighter. He swallowed hard and then spoke again, all his words blurring into near insensibility. “WouldyoubemorecomfortableifIstrippedtoo?”</p><p>Phil gaped at him, his towel sliding from his suddenly nerveless fingers to the floor, only panicking a little around the edges as he tried to figure out how to answer.</p><p>But, really, who <i>wouldn’t</i> panic to find themselves living inside one of their own <i>actual</i> nightmares? Or maybe it was the <i>other</i> kind of dream. The kind that used to cause sticky sheets back when Phil was a teenager. </p><p>First he’d been naked at work. Sure, only Barton– Clint, really, when he was so tired and soft-looking and rumpled– was there to see the whole thing live. And Clint, after years of partnering with Coulson on ops, had seen <i>almost</i> everything there was to see. But SHIELD recorded <i>everything</i>, and there was no guarantee that the video wouldn’t end up being shown in a training course some day. </p><p>
  <i>Be sure to check your settings and cover your digital cameras, kids. Otherwise you might end up like Agent “Nudity Flying Everywhere” Coulson!</i>
</p><p>And then Clint went and offered to...to remove his <i>own</i> tac-suit, either to create parity or because he’d suddenly realized that Phil had been harboring a work-inappropriate crush for the better part of a decade. Phil wasn’t sure if Clint was mocking or confessing to an attraction on his own part.</p><p>No matter what, Phil needed to get a grip on himself– no. Phil needed to regain a little self-control and figure out how to answer. And quickly. Before the whole thing became <i>more</i> awkward. </p><p>If that was even possible.</p><p>Apparently, it was.</p><p>“We’re not having video sex on a SHIELD connection,” Phil said sharply, and immediately wished he could join the towel on the carpet. And then maybe sink all the way through the floor. Pity he was on the fourth floor, and sinking through would only give poor old Mrs. Singh below him quite an eyeful and probably a minor heart attack.</p><p>While Phil was having his internal crisis at the loss of control of his mouth, Clint sat staring blankly at his computer screen, mouth hanging a bit open, eyes wide and the soft pink in his cheeks turning to a flaming red. </p><p>“Bar–” Phil began, but Clint interrupted in a breathy, thin voice.</p><p>“Then can we do it over Skype or something?”</p><p>Phil opened his mouth to answer, realized he didn’t know what to say, and then entirely forgot to close his mouth.</p><p>*****</p><p>Well, Clint supposed that was one way to tell a guy how he felt about him. How he’d like to feel about him. How he’d like to feel him. How he’d like to feel himself while the other guy felt himself where Clint could watch.</p><p>And Phil had even remembered to speak clearly while talking about sex! Talk about a perfect man...</p><p>“I mean, if...if you’re...if we’re…” Clint swallowed. “Phil?”</p><p>Phil nodded slowly, looking hypnotized, and Clint’s spine snapped straight, making him sit up tall in the chair. </p><p>“<i>Really?!</i>” Clint licked his lips. “Like...now?”</p><p>“What?” Phil gave himself a little shake, and Clint licked his lips at the way it made the muscles of his shoulders and chest quiver and ripple. “I mean, <i>no!</i>”</p><p>“Oh.” Clint slouched back again, swallowing his disappointment. “I...Okay.”</p><p>Phil licked his own thin, sharp lips, and Clint sighed. Looked like tasting that gorgeous mouth was still off the table. Ah well, Clint had dealt with unrequited crushes before; he’d manage okay this time.</p><p>“No, Clint.” Phil’s lips quirked up at the corner and he raised his hands to sign instead.</p><p>[First time sex not on camera]</p><p>Clint felt himself start to smile, and then Phil kept going and the smile turned into a full-blown grin.</p><p>[When you come home. Touch is better than seeing.]</p><p>“And after we get the first time out of the way?” Clint asked, leaning forward and gripping the edge of the table. </p><p>“We’ll discuss that when we can be sure our boss isn’t watching.”</p><p>Clint laughed, delighted, and settled into to wrap up his report for the mission.</p><p>*****</p><p>In a hidden location in DC, Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD, sat staring at the screen of his phone, his face utterly devoid of expression. </p><p>“Love,” said a soft contralto voice behind him. “Are you well?”</p><p>“I think,” Nick replied slowly as a pair of slim, pale hands slid over his shoulders, a thin body wrapped in a black silk dressing gown pressing against his back.. “I think I would like to gouge out my <i>other</i> eye now.”</p><p>“Do not do that, love.” Zeg leaned down to press their lips lightly against his shaved-smooth scalp. “Just save a copy somewhere safe and delete that one from the servers. You can give it to them as a wedding present, should they continue to sort themselves out.”</p><p>“And if they don’t?” Nick tilted his head back to look up at Zeg’s amused little smirk. </p><p>“Then we can use it for blackmail material until they do.”</p><p>The two of them laughed easily together, and Nick pressed a button on his phone, making the recording disappear, overwritten and lost. He’d blame a computer glitch, if anyone ever asked what became of the AAR.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>With the usual grateful thanks to the Order of St. Wilfrid for their inspiration and egging-on. Without you wonderful people, there would be no funny words, there would be no ridiculously dumb ideas, and there wouldn't be nearly as much happiness and love. </p><p>I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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